


Mercantile

by lilith_babylon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Kink Meme, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_babylon/pseuds/lilith_babylon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A response to the kink meme prompt: Eleven/Simm!Master, clothed public sex.  I didn't warn for Rape/Non-con but it does have some mild dubious consent about it, in the usual eff-ed up Doctor/Master way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercantile

The silks market is a maze of heavy canvas tents stretched taut behind intricate, black metal frames. Multicolored awnings sloping from the tent faces mark the shopfronts, and the wide streets are choked by bolt after bolt of Antradar's sheer finespun craft. Silks in every color and pattern imaginable are hung in every length and angle from the tangled network of thin, coarse ropes that stretch in pliable curves from the tent frames on one side of the street to the other.

Thirty paces separate the shopfronts on either side of the street but the open path, looking up past the web of ropes to the slate gray sky above, spans barely five. Smoke and incense rise from the shopfronts and the Antradaran merchants fluff their head feathers and trill their inventories to the throng, their apprentice-chicks descending on any potential customer who strays from the path among the caress of breeze-blown wares.

The Doctor lost Amy and Rory nearly immediately after arriving, and now he strides through the marketplace, letting the shock of billowing colors, sharp sounds and scents spin out of focus around him, the sensory miasma largely unprocessed. He may appear aimless to the outside observer but the trail he is following is a different sense altogether. It's why they landed here in the first place. The sense sharpens and his eyes alight on a single figure standing out like a fish swimming backward in its school. He sees a foot, a hand, the back of a head as his quarry retreats quickly among the hanging, opaque silks at the far end of a large shop square.

He follows, tentatively brushing aside smooth curtains of pink and olive green, trailing caresses against the fabric as he ventures deeper into the maze. Then, behind him, there is the _zzzwick_ -ing sound of a bolt being slipped from its line, and as he turns the fabric is shaken and thrown like a net in front of his eyes. He raises a hand in protest but it is not enough to deflect the fabric. A wall of orange cream-colored polygons outlined in crisp black lines assaults him and he reels backward, off balance. His quarry's hands propel him further past the yielding silks until he hits the rough canvas of a tent wall.

The silk screen pools to the ground and as the Doctor bats the last of it away the Master seizes his wrists, binds them with a twist of a the last falling corner of fabric, and pins the Doctor's hands above his head against the springy resistance of the canvas. He has reverted to type--almost--dressed in black suit trousers and white silk button-down shirt. Coat and tie have gone by the wayside somewhere. "You're a hard man to get hold of these days," he says, looking the Doctor over in much the same way. "I like the bow tie."

"Bow ties are--wait, you like it?" The Doctor blinks, trying to reconcile the fact that his dead ex-friend ex-enemy ex-friend is now ex-dead, apparently. Again. "Maybe they're not cool, after all."

The Master chances a furtive glance around, cocks an ear to hear the muffled sound of trills and bargaining at the shop front around the corner, and smiles. "I suppose it's best if you leave it on."

Hands still pinned by the Master's wiry strength, the Doctor doesn't resist as his foe leans in and kisses him, his free hand gathering a fold of pooled silk and tracing a line down from behind the Doctor's ear to his shirt collar. His senses spin as the Master presses close to him. He can feel the heat from the other man's groin and the tightness pressed against his thighs, as the Master explores his mouth with teeth and tongue. The Doctor groans into the kiss, breathless, as the sensation flows down, pooling warmth in the pit of his stomach as his erection grows and pushes against his own trousers.

Behind the Master's back, the only thing that separates them from the marketplace is ten paces of billowing silk bolts. A breeze gusts and he sees legs, feet, hands, a face or two of the throng. The Master pulls away from the kiss and turns to whisper in his ear. "You want to fuck me, don't you?" he asks. "Right here."

The Doctor closes his eyes and for the first time tries to struggle against the Master's grip. His cock surges against the trap of cloth in his trousers and that is, apparently, all the Master needs as an answer.

"My rules," the Master says. He yanks the Doctor's arms down and in one quick move turns him around, pressing his cheek, bound wrists, and thighs into the canvas wall, holding the Doctor with a steel grip at the back of his neck. The Master reaches around into the Doctor's coat pockets, searching the oldest transcendental folds until he finds what he is looking for. The Doctor doesn't see what the Master comes up with, but he has a guess.

"Naughty boy. I can always count on your pockets." The Master presses his groin against the Doctor's arse, jolting a teasing tension into his cock and balls, before pulling away again. "The rule is," the Master whispers in his ear, and the Doctor didn't realize until too late that he'd moved his hand from his neck, up to his temple in a three-point initiation of contact, "You don't come until I do."

The directive arcs down neural pathways, flowing from head to fingers to toes to groin, and the Doctor lets out a pant of breath, struggling as it seizes his systems and settles over him. His fingers curl into fists as much as they can, the canvas rubbing his knuckles raw. It's too late to stop the directive, and he knows it's hastily constructed and he should let it settle so it has a chance of fading in the next few hours. But his body rebels and he resists anyway, feeling the pressure build in his groin as a result and trying to stop sensation before it builds to pain.

The Master walks them both a pace back from the wall, leaning the Doctor forward. His head is spinning with the directive and he keeps his forehead pressed to the canvas and the Master pulls the back of his trousers down, just enough to let him probe the Doctor's hole with a wet finger. He massages it carefully in slow circles, spiraling tightness and wetness forward to his cock still trapped in his trousers, and then the finger is replaced by the blunt, cold tip of the object the Master had found. The plug goes in wet and smooth, bulging and relenting in two slow spasms as the Doctor clenches against it and takes more of it in. It pushes against the sensitive bundle of nerves that run through to his cock and the Doctor clenches his jaw and lets out a wordless groan of pain as the motion crashes against the directive in his mind.

"Please--" he says, and bites his lip.

When it's buried to the hilt the Master releases the Doctor's trousers and covers him up again. "You do want to fuck me, don't you?" he says. "You're not going to try and get away if I untie you?"

The Doctor's stomach flip-flops at the idea and he grinds out "No" against the rough canvas wall.

The Master reaches around and slides the silk bonds from the Doctor's wrists, turning him around again and undoing just the zipper on his fly. The plug pulses against his trousers and the Doctor pushes forward as the Master finally frees his cock through the hole. He seizes the Master's hips with his newly freed hands and snakes one hand around, feeling the Master's own cock pressed hard and throbbing against his inner thigh, the tip already leaving a wet spot on his trousers. The Doctor tries to unbutton the Master's trousers but the Master stops him with a hand and a push at the directive.

"That's too easy," he says wickedly. "Besides, aren't there urchins running around here somewhere? Let's be discreet, shall we?"

"I hate your rules," the Doctor pants, pulling the back of the Master's trousers down.

"Then why are you still here?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he bends the Master down, half-leaning him against the resisting canvas wall and runs his cock along the crease of the Master's buttocks, licking his finger and adding moisture to the wetness from its tip. The plug pulses into him as he pushes his cock slowly and methodically against the Master's exposed arse, stretching his opening with fingers and flesh. The hard plastic trapped against his trousers echoes each rhythmic motion he initiates, sending shudders and jolts of pleasure into him that sharpen to the brink of pain with the directive still in place.

The Doctor leaves one hand at the Master's hip and runs the other roughly up the smooth silk on the Master's back to grasp his shoulder at the nape of his neck, leveraging himself and bracing for the backlash against the directive as he pushes his way into the Master.

The Master lets out a sigh that turns to a breathless laugh as the Doctor thrusts into him. The sound and feel of that reaction races through the Doctor's nerve endings and he tightens his grip on the Master's shoulder, thrusting and thrusting, feeling the echo of it as the plug does its work inside him and biting back a scream as the tension continues to build and build at the base of his cock, shooting streaks and jitters across his vision, the flowing patterns of their meager privacy dancing like fireworks in front of his eyes.

"Not . . . yet. . . . " The Master groans and the Doctor can feel the Master's thighs tensing beneath him. Ecstasy sharpens to pain but he can't stop, can't stop the plug's strumming his nerve endings in jolts and somehow still building, can't stop the feel of his own cock doing the same thing to the Master, bent nearly double in front of him and gritting his teeth as the Doctor thrusts harder and harder, trying to get the length of himself beyond the trap of trousers on both of them. He grips the Master's neck hard enough to bruise and moves his hand from the Master's hip around again to his trousers and his infuriatingly cloistered cock, hot and damp and ramrod straight against his palm. He rubs it in sharp downward thrusts before taking the Master's hips again and straining to fill every inch of him.

The Master laughs.

A trill whistles nearby, too close, and it short-circuits something in the Doctor's head to the point where he feels as though he's free falling. His body is drawn out, strung tight and as the directive screams at him all he can think of is coming, right now, right--

"No--" the Master gasps. "Don't--don't stop--"

The Doctor hadn't even realized he had done so, but he seizes the moment. He lowers them both to their knees and swipes the print bolt from the ground before straightening up again. The directive dizzies him as he reaches around, undoes the button and fly on the Master's trousers and sets upon his exposed cock with the twisting silk corner. Soon it is trussed at the base, engorged, encased in a sheath of silk. The Doctor pulls the rest of the bolt up around the Master's waist and weaves it between his thighs and the Master's buttocks.

Then he leans forward, hands grasping the Master's shoulder, thrusts building again in pure agonizing ecstasy, feeling the Master's cock pull against its silk prison as he moves, and whispers in his ear, "My rules now."

The Master cries out and spasms underneath him and the Doctor's whole body screams in release as he comes, the plug crashing against him from the inside and his cock pulsing and throbbing inside the Master until they both collapse on the ground.

They stay that way for a long time, each propped bonelessly against the tent wall, disheveled, but for all the frenzy of it, still in a decent state of dress. When the Doctor groggily comes back to reality he's glad of it, and also glad that a few bits of mammalian genitalia still poking through trousers would slip right past the attention of any of the avian Antradaran younglings.

The chick blinks saucer eyes at him and extends a long primary feather to point at the cream-and-black bolt.

"Good design," it says. "Good design. You buy?"

"Yeah," the Doctor answers. "Yeah, I'll buy."


End file.
